MOLLIE
BRIDE OF GEORGIA
AMERICAN MAIL-ORDER BRIDES SERIES #4
by
Lorrie Farrelly
DEDICATION
In loving memory of Jennie Gregg Farrelly (1883-1954), whose photograph graces the cover of this book. I hope she’d be tickled to find herself on the cover of a twenty-first century historical romance. Thank you, Jennie, and thanks also to your grandson Wally, who treated your image with love and artistry. You’d be proud of him.
PROLOGUE
Atlanta, Georgia
March 8, 1889
“I aim to bid on Lot 17,” George Gress said cheerfully, handing his brother-in-law a hastily-printed auction listing. “There’s a killing just waiting to be made there, my boy. Whatta ya think, Doc?”
Nicholas Avinger took the smudged pages and flipped through them to Lot 17. It was a crisp spring day, with the invigorating scent of rain blowing in on a briskly gathering breeze. The wind caught the brim of his hat, lifting it, and Nick snatched it, tugging it back down. It was a gesture born of long habit, a trick to hide the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to the angle of his jaw. At least in the day’s blustery weather, he didn’t have to mumble an excuse about the sun being in his eyes.
He was beginning to wish he’d never let George talk him into coming to the auction in the first place. Nick purely hated crowds; they never failed to get his back up and set his teeth on edge. Even though the men gathering at the foot of the Fulton County Courthouse steps for the day’s auction were in abundantly good spirits, every accidental elbow jab or shoulder bump, despite the inevitable “Beg pardon,” made Nick want to punch someone, or head for the hills, or both.
“Be quite a steal, don’t you think?” George pressed on with a grin. He jabbed a finger at Lot 17’s listing. “And look here. The reserve’s next to nothing.”
Frowning, trying to shut out the noise and bustle that grated on his nerves, Nick focused on the description of the merchandise that had captured his brother-in-law’s interest. It didn’t take but a moment for his brows to arrow together in a scowl.
“This is some kind of joke, right?” he asked.
“Not on your life, sir,” George said, hands raised, palms out. “And believe me, brother, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Nick scanned the lot description again, then looked up from under the lowered brim of his hat. He tapped the paper with his finger.
“Wait, wait a doggone minute,” he said, as though his worst suspicion had just been realized. “I know this lot. This is that broken-down, flea-bitten circus camped over in Grant Park, isn’t it? The one we had to get after for starving their menagerie?”
“It is, indeed,” George nodded. “Lock, stock, and boxcars.”
“You take ever-lovin’ leave of your senses, George?” Nick asked in disbelief, shaking his head. “All right, I grant you the circus wagons and rail cars have excellent value. But what in the Sam Hill are y’all going to do with …” Nick peered back down at the list, squinted at the small print. “… one hyena, two African lionesses, two pumas, two monkeys, one black bear, one jaguar, one elk, two spotted fawns, two wild cats, one Mexican hog, one dromedary, one camel? Oh, and a raccoon.”
George grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling beneath his bowler hat. “Hush now, sir. I’m not doing anything with them, Nicholas, my boy. You are.”
“What?”
Impossibly, George’s grin grew wider in his broad, handsome face. “Pick up your jaw, Doc. I’m not giving them to you, personally. I’m going to donate them to our fair city. And as that belly-up circus just ran out of steam right there in the park, I reckon the critters may as well stay put. It’d make a fine spot for a new zoological garden, don’t you think? And seeing as how you work for the Animal Industry Bureau, not to mention your being the best damn horse doctor in Georgia, I do believe you’re the very man to oversee them on a permanent basis.”
George nudged Nick with his elbow. “And since you broke your engagement to Josephine Wickersham.…” He paused, cocked his head. “Say, what’s that make, anyway? Two fiancées shown the door? Three?”
“Three. And I didn’t break it off this time,” Nick snapped. “She did. Claimed I paid more attention to sick hogs and foundering horses than I did to her, and that I was too – what did she call it? – irascible of temperament.”
“Ah, yes, well, knowing you, brother, she was probably right.”
“Dammit, George.…”
“Now, now, settle down, Doc. I was just going to say that, seeing as Miss Wickersham has flown the coop, so to speak, I reckon we might find you a nice replacement in this here circus menagerie. After all, doesn’t that Darwin fellow you admire so much say monkeys are just the same as us? Maybe one of them will take a liking to you.”
Nick scowled, but the blacker his expression became, the broader George’s grin grew. “Darwin never said monkeys were human,” Nick retorted, “although I can think of a few humans who’d make darn fine monkeys.” He glared meaningfully at George.
When his brother-in-law burst out laughing, Nick glanced back down at the list. “Oh, well, now, fancy that. Look here, George. Darned if they didn’t go and put you on the list.”
“What?”
When George stepped closer to peer at the list, Nick pointed to an entry and announced, “One Yankee jackass.”
• • • • •
On a late afternoon a few weeks later, Nick stepped off the streetcar and walked the three blocks to his sister’s house. A brief rain squall had passed, thankfully without any thunder and lightning to rattle his nerves, but the air was still chilly and the pecan, magnolia, and willow trees that lined the street dripped water onto the already muddy lane.
Ida Avinger Gress’s home was a large, neat, white wood and stone house with a deep front porch, set back from the street and reached by a newly rain-washed set of three stone steps. A wooden swing hung by chains from a porch beam and a pair of wide, weathered wooden rockers gave the house a friendly, hospitable appearance.
A plump, robust, middle-aged black woman, her dark hair bound in a bright blue kerchief and a starched apron tied around her waist, stood on the porch, humming to herself as she mopped the floorboards. When Nick called out, “Evenin’, Miz Willie Mae!” she paused and looked up. At once a huge smile bloomed on her face.
“Mist’ Nick!” she exclaimed. “Where you been? We missed you last Saturday dinner. Li’l Miss Marie ’bout had a conniption wonderin’ where her Uncle Nick had got to.”
Nick vaulted the porch steps and bent to place a sound kiss on Willie Mae’s cheek. “I’m right sorry, Miz Willie,” he said. “I’ve been working ’round the clock on gettin’ that circus menagerie properly fed and housed. If Atlanta’s going to have a zoological garden, I want it to be one this city can be proud of. Tell you the truth, some of those poor beasts had grown awfully pitiful.”
Willie Mae’s eyes glowed with excitement. “It true you got real African wild critters, lions and tigers an’ such?”
Nodding, Nick took the mop from Willie Mae’s hands and propped it back in the wash bucket. “Yes, ma’am, Miz Willie. We surely do. C’mon now, let’s sit a spell and I’ll tell you all about them.”
“Well, looky here, Mist’ Nick,” Willie Mae protested, even as she allowed him to lead her to the rocker and ease her into it. “I got work to do! Much as I’d like to hear, I cain’t be fritterin’ away the time!”
“Ma’am, if there’s even one speck of mud left on this here porch, it’s hollerin’ for mercy. Reckon you can spare a minute or two.”
With a hmmpph, Willie Mae allowed herself to be persuaded, and for the next ten minutes, Nick told her about his and his assistants’ efforts to turn a bedraggled, starving, abandoned circus menagerie into a first class zoological exhibition.
She listened with amazement, then sighed, “Umm-ummph! Wouldn’t I just admire seein’ such a sight as those critters!”
Nick reached out, took her hand. “Well, I promise you will, Miz Willie. And your Florrie and little Henry, too. I’ll arrange it personally, soon as I can.”
Willie Mae patted his hand. “You are a good man, Mist’ Nick.” Her brow furrowed, and she added, almost to herself, “I declare, that silly ninny, ol’ Miss Josephine Wickersham, she ain’t got a lick of sense, you ask me.”
Instantly, her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh Lawd, forget I ever said that, Mist’ Nick. It ain’t my place to say nothin’ about that lady, one way or t’other.”
Shaking his head, Nick said, “It’s always your place to say whatever you got to say to me, Miz Willie Mae. You know that.” He glanced at the front door. “And speakin’ of Miss Wickersham, my sister’s been ridin’ me up one wall and down the other for not having been a proper beau to her, and … what did she call it? … ‘cuttin’ bait on the biggest fish I could ever hope to catch.’”
Willie Mae snorted. “There’s never no shortage of fish in the sea, Mist’ Nick, an’ that’s the truth. That Miss Wickersham, well, for such a short little lady, she sure ’nuff could look a mighty long way down that long nose of hers.”
When Nick choked with a suppressed laugh, Willie Mae added hastily, “Now, don’t you go sayin’ I said so, Mist’ Nick. That’s just between you an’ me.”
He nodded, crossed his heart. “They’ll never get a word out of me, ma’am,” he promised. Slapping his palms on his knees, he pushed up to standing. “Well, I reckon I’d best go face the music. Miz Ida’s still mightily put out with me, I reckon?”
Rocking slowly in the chair, Willie Mae closed her eyes, leaned her head back. “Yessuh, I ’spect Miz Ida’ll have a thing or two to say to y’all, Mist’ Nick. Best go on with you, get the scoldin’ over with. I’ll be in directly, set y’all a nice supper.”
“All right then, ma’am. But you hear any cannon fire, come quick and rescue me.”
And to the sound of Willie Mae’s chuckle, Nick crossed the porch and opened the front door.
He’d barely stepped from the foyer into the front parlor when his five-year-old niece, Marie, squealed, “Uncle Nicky!” and raced across the room, flinging herself into her adored uncle’s arms. “Guess what? Guess what? Posey had kittens! Three of ’em!”
“Well, say, Maisy-Daisy, that’s great news! And mmm-mmm! Am I ever glad to see you!” He hugged the little girl, spinning her around until the huge bow in her auburn ringlets threatened to fly from her head. Both were laughing in delight as Nick turned and came face to face with his sister. She scowled, folded her arms across her chest. Her deep blue eyes, so like Nick’s own, were cool with disapproval.
“Nicholas, for heaven’s sake! Whenever will y’all grow up?”
He reddened, grinned a little sheepishly, and set a giggling Marie on her feet. “Sissy,” he nodded, then shrugged. “Sorry.” He reached down, cupped his niece’s head tenderly, gave her a little pat. “Go on, now, Maisy,” he said gently. “I need to talk to your mama a bit, then I’ll come see the kittens, all right?”
Marie’s smile turned down. “But I want you to come see them right now.”
Ida’s frown deepened. “Marie, no arguing, if you please. Go along now.”
“Yes’m,” Marie sighed. “But hurry up, will you, Uncle Nicky?”
“Marie!” Ida warned, and the little girl scooted away.
“That child,” Nick’s sister continued, shaking her head. “Honestly, Nicholas, you and her father are both entirely too encouraging of unseemly behavior.”
“I’m sorry, Sissy,” he repeated contritely. “And about last Saturday, too. Time I got free, it was too late to come over.”
“Well, if that were the case, you should have sent word sooner. Here I had invited Miss Annabelle Pritchard, a new member of our church, especially to meet you.”
“Miss Annabelle’s a prissy, fair-haired nitwit. I’d say you dodged a bullet there, Doc.” The evening edition newspaper in hand, George wandered into the parlor. He looked at his wife with a twinkle in his eye and feigned innocence in his voice. “Miz Willie Mae got supper ready yet?”
“George!” Ida scolded in exasperation. “For heaven’s sake! What a thing to say! Miss Pritchard is not prissy, and she most certainly is not a nitwit!”
Her husband shrugged. “Well, now, I’ve never heard anyone say ‘I declare’ as often as Miss Annabelle did in the space of one meal. Counted four hundred and eighty-two times, I did, though I might’ve missed a few whilst I was trying to drown myself in the soup.” He winked at Nick. “Like I said, reckon you had a narrow escape there, Doc.”
“Oh!” Ida huffed. “Really, George! Nicholas, I assure you, Annabelle is a very eligible young lady who’s just moved here from Gwinnett County. And it was quite mortifying, you know, having no eligible gentleman with whom to seat her.”
Nick did his best to look contrite. “Sorry,” he mumbled again.
Ida sighed and admitted defeat. “Well, I suppose that’s water under the bridge now.” She shook her head, propped her hands on her hips. “Honestly! Men! Whatever am I to do with either of you?”
CHAPTER 1
The following year
November 1890
Mollie Winters sat alone on a bench at the Atlanta rail depot, her cloak wrapped snugly around her against the chill breeze, a small, carpetbag valise at her feet and a forlorn expression on her face. Taking a deep breath, she opened the small cloth purse that hung with drawstrings from her wrist. After a moment of rummaging, she removed the weeks-old newspaper clipping her cousin Constance had sent down from Lawrence, Massachusetts.
Mollie’d had to hide the clipping from Mama’s ever-vigilant, disapproving eye, but now that her mother had passed on to her reward, Mollie’d had no further excuse to delay. She carefully unfolded the creased newspaper, adjusted her tinted glass spectacles, and began reading, although she already knew each word by heart.
Dearest Cousin Mollie, Constance had written along the margin of the newspaper advertisement. I take my heart in hand as I set out upon my own great adventure with Mr. Ferris from Florida. However, when I saw Dr. Avinger’s advertisement, I thought immediately of you, and I pray you know it is with great love and hope that I send it on to you. Atlanta is not so very far from Savannah, and perhaps now that you are free to begin your own life, you will find a happier future there. You know what they say – nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Good luck, dearest Mollie. Remember you are always in my heart.
With love, Constance
THE GROOM’S GAZETTE
September 1890 Edition
Dr. Nicholas J. Avinger of Atlanta, Georgia
Dr. Avinger is 38 years of age, in good health, and possessed of a good moral character. He is employed as a veterinarian and animal industry inspector, and is well educated, of reasonable appearance, and of substantial means. He is seeking an amiable young woman, also educated and of good character, versed in housekeeping, with a view to a matrimonial engagement.
Please contact Dr. Avinger in care of his sister, Mrs. George V. Gress, at Atlanta General Delivery.
Gathering her courage and taking a wild leap of faith, Mollie had written to Mrs. Gress on her best stationery, introducing herself and including a note from Reverend Blaswell commending her integrity, industriousness, and good character.
When Dr. Avinger’s sister responded positively, even generously sending a train ticket for the journey from Savannah, Mollie had nearly lost her nerve. After all, even decades after the dreadful war, there were still far more women in the South than men. Hector’s pup! Whatever could be wrong with Dr. Avinger th
at necessitated he advertise for a wife?
Surely he was too young to be a troubled veteran afflicted by Soldier’s Heart. The war had been over such a long time, now, although Mollie knew well that some of the Boys in Gray had indeed been just that – boys. Perhaps Dr. Avinger was overly melancholy, or of unpleasing or slovenly appearance. And could he be so utterly consumed by his vocation that it fell to his sister to conduct his personal affairs? Perhaps he….
Mollie had caught herself, corralling her wayward imagination. She could not think that way if she were going to make a success of this venture. Gathering her courage, she had replied to Mrs. Gress’s letter, expressing gratitude and advising the doctor’s sister of the time and date she expected to arrive in Atlanta.
The train had only been delayed a few hours, yet now here she sat, with no one appearing at the depot to meet her. Could her letter have been lost?
In growing unease, Mollie blinked in the dwindling afternoon light. The days grew shorter now, and twilight came early. She removed her spectacles, pressed her gloved fingertips against tired eyes. Sighing, replacing her glasses, she looked about the station once more. The train from Savannah had unloaded and departed some time ago, and now only a few people still lingered on the platform, sorting luggage or crates of cargo.
None appeared to have the slightest interest in her.
Realizing she was clutching The Grooms’ Gazette clipping so tightly it was balled in her gloved fist, Mollie carefully began to smooth and refold the paper. Tucking it securely back into her purse, she blew out a breath, brushed at the creases in her forest green traveling dress and woolen cloak, and stood.
She’d hoped to buy new clothes and have a comfortable nest egg for this journey from the sale of the house, but once Mama’s debts had been settled and her doctor’s and apothecary’s bills paid – although heaven knew neither physician nor apothecary had done Mama much good – there was no money left for a new wardrobe. It seemed that, although the struggles and trauma of war and Reconstruction were now in the past, more people wished to leave Savannah than to relocate to it. The house had not brought nearly as much as Mollie had hoped.
Mollie: Bride of Georgia (American Mail-Order Brides 4) Page 1
